


caressing stars (let your body get used to this)

by wartimelovers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT OF EMOTION REPRESSION, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I like to think of it as a S3 fix-it but idk, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Repressed John, Repressed Sherlock, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Emotional Tension, of sorts, they are both idiots who cant do emotions. the end, this is too self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wartimelovers/pseuds/wartimelovers
Summary: "Use your method, Holmes. Deduce why.” Their chests are practically touching. John sees Sherlock looking down into his eyes and then on his lips. He’s breathing deeply.or the one where the Reichenbach Fall goes differently, there is a blizzard in Switzerland and Sherlock and John are both emotionally repressed idiots but it all works out for them in the end.





	caressing stars (let your body get used to this)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a fic ive literally written today, all of it, and will probs check it tomorrow, so excuse any mistakes. all of them are my own. ALSO i havent written in 3 years so please take that into consideration. the story is my own and if its similar to something that already exists, then im sorry. all concious inpirations are listed below. 
> 
> i would like to dedicate this to my dear friend ewa. you never cease to inspire me 
> 
> this work is also very losely based and inspired by this lovely post by @rutobuka2 on tumblr, you can find the post here -> http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/106568752994/my-holiday-exchange-was-all-about-cold-and
> 
> any and all comments will be appreciated as hell. please do note that english is not my first language, so if something seems off, dont be afraid to tell me! i want to learn :)

“Sherlock, wait!” John cries, his voice weak from his shallow breathing pattern. Sherlock doesn’t even turn, hasn’t even noticed that John had stopped, bent forward with hands on his thighs. Or probably he has because he always notices _everything_ and John should probably expect a snarky comment later on, when they’re back at Baker Street and in their chairs. He shakes his head and tries to focus on right now.

 

“Wait!” He yells again. But Sherlock’s gone. “Perfect,” he mutters to himself. “Just fucking perfect.”

 

Around him, it’s getting dark pretty fast and even colder than it had been before. Snow lies heavy on old dignified pines and it looks like it started snowing again. John straightens up and looks up as if he could make it stop with the sheer force of his annoyance. He can barely see what is in front of him and the battery in his phone is long dead, having searched through ancient castles with Sherlock for the past seventeen hours or so. He figures shouting won’t do him any better than causing an avalanche, so with a resigned sigh he starts walking slowly forward.

 

 

 

Before they left for Switzerland, Sherlock had promised that’d be their last stop ever. And John should probably know better for he had promised the same thing before Turkmenistan and Greece. At least it was warm back there. But, John figures, he can’t blame him, not entirely. In the end, it was him who swore to never let Sherlock do these things on his own, not after the Fall. Not after he thought he’d lost him, not after he kneeled over his (seemingly) dead body, thinking that light have gone out of his life and he was back in the cold darkness from years before. And certainly not after he’d been taken back to Baker Street, shaking, crying and shouting, only to find Sherlock alive and well, sitting in his chair as if nothing happened.

 

That moment, John remembers vividly, was one of those when you feel like you’re both a visitor in your own body and hyperaware of your every muscle and nerve ending. Sherlock had stood up slowly, both hands slightly raised as if he was giving up, giving space, and he said, “John,” in such a small voice, so unlike himself.

 

John didn’t see red. He wasn’t truly angry. He was… To this day, almost a year later, he cannot quite name what was he feeling in that moment. He had tried, believe him, with various therapists and specialists, and none of them could help. Believe him or not, but there’s a certain unnamed trauma from watching your best friend die by launching himself from a building, only to find him alive an hour later.

 

So even though he wasn’t really angry, John had leapt the distance between them and punched Sherlock hard in the right shoulder. Sherlock had stumbled behind a step or two, hunching a bit, which made him look smaller. John raised his closed fist to punch him again, finding that he couldn’t. They’d stood there in silence for a good minute, before John managed to finally speak.

 

“What was that?” he had asked through gritted teeth.

 

Sherlock took another step back and John lowered his fist. Looking back, he knows the emotions in Sherlock’s eyes had been pained sadness but also fear. On bad days, he can’t stand himself for causing Sherlock to be scared of him. On better days, he feels immense guilt and shame. Before that day, he doesn’t think that he has ever seen Sherlock scared. To be the cause of that might haunt him forever.

 

“After finding Moriarty in Kitty’s flat, I realised what he’d planned,” Sherlock started, voice still softer than usual, lacking the cocky confidence which he usually had while explaining his deductions to John. “I knew he would want to end his fairy tale by killing me, but I didn’t know he would target _you_ ,” he had explained, avoiding John’s eyes.

 

“Target me how?” John had asked.

 

Still looking somewhere to the left of John’s feet, Sherlock had said, “He had snipers pointing at you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Ready to pull the trigger unless they saw me jump. Moriarty made a mistake of telling me that there was some sort of way to call them off and…” Sherlock waved his hand around weakly. This had been the first time John saw him completely lost for words.

 

He had then explained that upon his realisation, Moriarty had kill himself to prevent him from extracting the key from him. “I felt overwhelmed,” Sherlock confessed later that night, with a cup of tea in his hands. “I didn’t know what to do, save for that I needed to protect you. Please say something. John,” he had almost begged.

 

John hadn’t said anything since he entered the flat more than three hours ago. In silence, he had listened to Sherlock’s explanations and his deductions. Brought him a change of clothes. Made him tea. He was standing with this back to the wall next to the door leading to Sherlock’s bedroom, thinking how Sherlock had repeated litanies of how he did what he did in order to protect him. Not mentioning Mrs Hudson and Lestrade much. _Him_. He took a step forward and finally caught Sherlock’s eyes. Contrary to when he had seen him sitting in the same exact spot hours before, he felt composed. In what seemed like slow motion, he crossed the distance between him and Sherlock’s chair and kneeled beside it.

 

“I’m _so_ glad that you’re alive,” he said, not quite recognising his own voice, rough from crying and shouting. “Never do that again, arsehole.”

 

Sherlock had smiled.

 

 

It always comes back when he loses sight of him on a case. It even comes back when Sherlock leaves without telling him and John wakes up to an empty flat and it comes rushing back. That used to be quite an issue with them the first month or so after it happened. Being dead, Sherlock couldn’t quite leave the flat as he wished, yet it still happened. The first time John walked down to the kitchen, calling out Sherlock’s name to no avail, he felt as if he was to pass out. He called and called, Molly, the homeless network, even Mycroft but no one knew where Sherlock had gone. They didn’t talk about the Fall, not since it happened, and John didn’t wish to have that conversation now.

 

When he was about to leave to look for Sherlock, the man in question opened the door. Sherlock had let his hair grow a bit, his curls then more pronounced. He had a two-day stubble. He was obviously undercover, dressed in black sweats and a big hoodie John suspected used to be his, but couldn’t quite remember. He was holding lilies.

 

John, with his mouth half open to scream, stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his mouth and, pointing at the lilies, he raised his eyebrows.

 

Sherlock gave a little shrug. “A woman on the street was selling these and I thought… You know, because…” he paused, dissatisfied. “They look nice and…”

 

With a sigh, John took Sherlock by the hand and led him to his chair. He put the lilies in a vase and made them tea. He felt deep in his core that they ought to talk the Fall through, to let it go to be able to start over, and, most importantly, help Sherlock.

 

But John knew that he couldn’t talk about it just then. It felt like the wound was still bleeding and that his heart was screaming and crying and bouncing off the walls of his chest, urging him to say something, to do something, to comfort his friend that he quietly swore to protect, but he couldn’t. There were high concrete walls in his mind that he pounded and pounded on and not a crack had shown up. If he was battling himself, how could he find energy to battle for Sherlock?

 

So, they sat there in silence until the tea had gone cold untouched and Sherlock had fallen asleep in his chair. The opportunity had passed and even though it had presented itself many times more, John was never able to grasp it.

 

The Fall killed them both in very different ways.

 

 

A week after the lilies affair, Mycroft had shown up. He waltzed into the flat without knocking, still on his phone with someone important, presumably. John put down his newspaper with a sigh; Sherlock had graced him with nothing but a blank stare and returned to plucking the strings of his violin.

 

John’s annoyance grew exponentially with the time Mycroft spent in the middle of their living room, speaking in a hushed voice in which sounded to be a mix of three different languages. John was thinking of interrupting him with some sort of comment but then Mycroft ended the call with an exasperated sigh.

 

“Brother mine,” he said, walking up to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock didn’t look up. “Isn’t a month enough of your convalescence? Dying seems to have slowed you down.”

 

Sherlock flinched but remained silent. John, on the other hand, felt his cheeks burn. His heart started beating faster. Mycroft was very much responsible for putting Sherlock in the situation where he had to– And yet he dared to come to their home and say stuff like that? John twitched and turned uncomfortably in his chair.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed again. He rested his hands above his hips like a mother who’s upset with her moody five-year-old. To someone who didn’t know Sherlock very well, who didn’t know what he’d gone through, that might’ve seemed to be the case. But John knew too well that Mycroft’s visits and favours almost never ended happily and that he very much overused the influence he had over his brother. Mycroft was not a good person, no matter how hard he tried to prove otherwise. “You must remember what we’ve discussed whilst planning Lazarus. The second part of the operation should begin quickly if we want to…”

 

“Wait,” John said, raising to his feet. Mycroft turned around to look at him with one of his sly half-smiles that didn’t have any joy in them. “What do you mean second part? Moriarty’s dead.”

 

“Yes, very observant of you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said with the same sly expression. John felt his hands turn into fists. “But the international network he was the head of isn’t. We have to move fast while they’re still disorganised; if we wait any longer, they’ll regroup and go underground and dismantling them might take,” he scrunched his face in what might’ve been disgust, “significantly longer.”

 

“But you’re not expecting Sherlock to do it, are you?” And John was quite sure the answer would be negative while asking the question. But seeing both Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s expressions reassured him that he would never learn when it comes to the Holmes family. “How could you even think that…? Mycroft, look at him!” John took a few steps forward and stood next to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock also stood up, apparently having disliked being towered over by his friend and his older brother. The air was heavy with tension and unspoken truths.

 

“John, please, calm down,” Mycroft said calmly. “I know what my brother is and isn’t capable of. He will be just fine.” He spoke the last words looking directly at Sherlock with a cold expression, again, like a mother telling her child to behave. Or else…

 

“Can’t one of your goons do it? Or all of them?” John tried desperately. “I imagine you have plenty.”

 

“Unfortunately, no,” Mycroft responded. “It has to be Sherlock.” And, after a pause, he added, “You have a week to collect yourself, brother mine. Then you leave for Norway.” And without waiting for an answer, he turned around and walked out of the flat quickly.

 

Sherlock and John just stood there quietly for a while, John, on his part, scared to move, scared the flat around them would shatter with the slightest touch or sound. Good ten minutes must have passed in silence when he heard the same “John” said in same small voice, so unlike the brave, out-there man he used to know.

 

Another opportunity. Sherlock needed him and he couldn’t bear to open his mouth to say the right words. He had failed him once and now he did it again. Feeling like a prisoner of his own mind, he smiled at his friend weakly. “Want to watch crap telly? I’ll let you tell me ending of every show,” he said instead.

 

 

In the late evening two days later, John discovered the power and the heating was out. He had fallen asleep reading on the couch in the living room probably some two hours earlier and when he woke up, the room was completely dark. He turned around to turn a lamp on, but no light came after he heard the click of the switch. He tried again and again, but to no avail.

 

“Mrs Hudson!” He yelled, collecting himself and standing up. Neither he nor Sherlock had much energy to clean up recently and he knew the living room was probably a deathly maze with safety googles, old Chinese takeout packages and body parts laying around in the dark. He stepped carefully, calling out again.

 

A moment later Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, holding up a candle. “Yes, dear?” she asked. She was also wearing a cardigan and her winter coat. John furrowed his brows.

 

“What happened to the power?” He asked eloquently. Then he felt a shiver. And another. Understanding dawned on him. “And the heating? It must be below zero outside!”

 

Mrs Hudson briefly told him that she didn’t know much, the company responsible wasn’t picking up, always somebody on the line, she complained. Figured the whole neighbourhood must be out of power. John scratched his head; this knowledge wouldn’t quite help him survive the night in a very cold flat. Mrs Hudson helpfully proposed to lend him some of her unused blankets and some candles.

 

“I’ll bring them around,” she said. “And you look for Sherlock. He probably hasn’t even noticed the power is out.”

 

“You haven’t seen him?” John asked, feeling even colder than moments before.

 

“Not since this morning, dear,” Mrs Hudson replied. “But I’m sure he’s fine and hiding here somewhere,” she added rather cheerfully and turned around.

 

John told himself not to panic. But his call of Sherlock’s name came out weak and broken, bringing back very much vivid scene of him running in the direction of Barts Hospital, thinking his best friend was dead. He shook his head and headed for the kitchen, deathly maze long forgotten.  


“Shit!” he exclaimed when his foot collided with something heavy and sturdy. He kept on walking with both hands outstretched until he got a hold of the kitchen table. He blinked twice, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. There was some weak red light coming from the window, probably from some emergency power outlet outside.

 

It was significantly colder in the kitchen, a thing that John hadn’t imagined possible. He tugged on his sweater’s sleeves to cover his hands, which were starting to go numb. On the windowsill, there was Sherlock, his coat threw over his broad shoulders, holding up a cigarette to his mouth and blowing out smoke through the open window.

 

John opened his mouth, unable to decide what he wanted to scream first. “What?” he finally decided.

 

“You don’t like the smell,” Sherlock responded, not turning around. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

 

“Well, yeah, I don’t like the smell, but I also don’t like freezing to death!” The last part of the sentence came out louder and stronger than he intended it to. Sherlock took a long drag. “Please, Sherlock, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the darkness and the unbearable cold?”

 

Sherlock said nothing and took one last drag of his cigarette and threw it out of the window. He stood up unsteadily from the windowsill and turned around, revealing only a worn-out shirt and pyjama pants underneath his coat. He was visibly shaking.

 

“My god,” John sighed and rushed to take Sherlock by his hand. It was ice cold. “The heating’s been out for at least an hour, you must’ve known… Sherlock, why would you do this?”

 

To which Sherlock responded quickly, “I have my coat, I’m fine,” only to be shot down by John’s hard stare. He looked down and let himself be guided to his own bedroom.

 

Mrs Hudson arrived with a stack of four blankets and some sturdy scented candles and wished them a safe night. “Should anything come up, I’m downstairs, you know… I hope the power’s going to be back soon,” and with that she left them alone.

 

John turned to Sherlock, who had been standing still by the foot of the bed. “You are probably not going to like this, but you have very little choice,” he said quietly. Sherlock looked at him questioningly in the darkness. John picked up the candles, lit them, and carefully distributed them around the room. “Take off your coat and your pants. If we get under the covers together, we should be warm enough until the heating comes back up.”

 

Sherlock stood in silence for a while and John was starting to get impatient. “Here, let me…” He said, reaching for Sherlock’s coat and, to his surprise, Sherlock took a step back with an unreadable expression.

 

“I can do it myself,” he said stubbornly and began to undress. “But why, exactly?”

 

“It’ll be warmer that way and you won’t freeze to death, that’s why, maybe,” John replied. Sherlock gave a theatrical sigh and John felt his smile literally warm the room.

 

Stripped down to his shirt and black boxers, Sherlock crawled under his creamy white covers. Having done the same (damn, it was cold!), John hurried to put the blankets over him and drew the curtains shut. He slipped under the covers on the left side and lied down to face Sherlock, who was still shaking.

 

“Here, give me your hands,” John asked, and when Sherlock complied, he began rubbing them together with his own. “Better?” he asked, to which Sherlock nodded slightly. He closed his eyes, lips shut in a tight line, distress visible in his features. His breathing pattern was shallow and irregular.

 

“It’s okay,” John murmured, shuffling closer. He knew that kind of behaviour and child-like treatment might activate Sherlock’s fight or flight instinct, but he hoped he would act rationally and allow John to do this for them. For him. “Bend your legs, please, and push them up, yeah? And now let me…” he trailed off, and instead of finishing his explanation just pushed his leg in between Sherlock’s, which caused him to jump and awkwardly wiggle back.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock gasped.

 

John sighed. “It will be warmer that way. I’m sorry. I should’ve explained.”

 

“No, it’s… fine,” Sherlock said reluctantly and moved back to his previous position. He allowed for John’s leg to slip in between his own. “It’s better, thank you.”

 

John watched Sherlock close his eyes and gradually relax on his pillow. He kept on mindlessly rubbing their hands together as he watched Sherlock fall asleep. His own eyelids were heavy and swollen, but for some reason he had the idea that he had to stay awake, no matter what. After some time and nth “I will just rest my eyes for a bit”, he gave up and closed them for good.

 

Half asleep, he felt Sherlock shift and turn a little bit, and then a sigh left his mouth. “I was…” Sherlock whispered and John automatically opened his eyes, but Sherlock was looking somewhere else. “No, John,” he said firmly. “Close your eyes or else I won’t be able to do this.”

 

About million questions formed in John’s mind, but he complied. He was very aware of his heart beating loudly in his chest as Sherlock started again. “I was so scared I was going to lose you,” Sherlock confessed, barely audible. His warm breath was ghosting over John’s face. “I was so scared you were going to die because of me. I failed… I failed to protect you. John…No, let me finish. I’ve been trying to say this for so long,” He sounded both impatient and scared. Again, John felt a pang of pain in his chest. Sherlock should never be scared of him. “I have never, um. I have never thought in my life that there would be someone who… who would care about how I felt.” A pause. John felt so tempted to open his eyes, to do something, but it felt like a part of him was paralysed. A prisoner of his own mind.

 

“And then you came around and I think you care, I mean there’s no easy way to know when it comes to you, but…” he continued and John couldn’t stand it any longer.

 

“Of course I care, for heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed, eyes still closed. “Why else would I be rubbing your hands for?”

 

“See, that’s the point I was going for,” Sherlock said calmly, but quietly. There was obvious irritation in his tone. He sounded much more like his usual self. “Nobody has ever shown this much interest in my person, in my wellbeing, John. I am not used to this kind of treatment, to kindness like you’ve shown me, and whenever I try to speak about how I feel it leads to a reaction like this one.” Another pause. “I was just wondering if you could possibly find it in you to forgive me one more thing, one more flaw?”

 

John opened his eyes. In the dim light of the candles, Sherlock’s own pale blue eyes were staring back at him intensely. With ruffled curls and an anxious expression, he looked a lot younger. More vulnerable.

 

“And what would that be, love?” He asked, the use of the pet name shocking to even himself. Surprisingly, Sherlock gave him a half-smile.

 

“For one, I think I cannot properly express how much I… how much you mean to me,” Sherlock said, maintaining eye contact so intense that it should be uncomfortable, but somehow it wasn’t. It felt right, like they belonged cuddled together under the covers in Sherlock’s bed, speaking in hushed voices, like lovers do. The thought seemed to fill the concrete walls of John’s mind like rainwater and for the first time in decades, it felt like they might burst.

 

“And I know how much the Fall has hurt you,” Sherlock continued and John flinched against his will, proving the point exactly. “You’ve been very good at hiding it, I must tell you, but I pride myself in being quite observant,” he laughed a bit and John felt weak. Suddenly, this seemed like a goodbye.

 

And then he realised. Sherlock thought he was going on the mission alone and this was, in fact, a goodbye.

 

Before he could say anything, Sherlock continued his speech. “So, there are actually two things I wish you would forgive me. First, the annoying inability to tell you how I feel without pissing you off. I’m really sorry about that one,” he said and John couldn’t help but smile. “And second,” he continued with a fading smile, his eyes tired and visibly sad “please forgive me for leaving you. For making you believe I left you behind. For failing to protect you. And, most importantly, for having to leave you again.”

 

John shook his head. “One thing I will forgive you,” he said quickly as he saw fear in Sherlock’s expression. “I will forgive you that in all of your brilliance you’re dumb enough to think that I would let you go fight Moriarty’s goons on your own.”

 

Sherlock gave him a weak smile and squeezed his hand. “John. John, I… don’t…” he stuttered and John squeezed his hand back.

 

“It’s okay, it’s fine, come here,” John said, pulling Sherlock closer to his chest, feeling his hands clasp on his back like vine. “I think I know what you mean. We will work on this pissing me off thing, promise.”

 

Sherlock smiled in his neck. Though it had started snowing some time before, John had never felt so warm.

 

Hours later, when as he felt Sherlock’s breath stabilising against his neck, he bent down and rested his chin on the top of his head. If Sherlock had felt that kiss John planted on his forehead, none of them ever mentioned it in the light of the day.

 

Nobody, not even Mycroft, asked any questions when both of them showed up on the Norway briefing a few days later.

 

 

They have been pretty much all over the world, John thinks, walking up the steep hill, and almost never back home. Tracking down Moriarty’s network lacked the usual thrill and excitement of a case back home, and instead felt like a mundane bleak chore they had to do. Nonetheless, John was glad he didn’t let Sherlock go alone. Sherlock might’ve been the genius all he wanted, but he lacked John’s acquaintance with harsh environments and guns, which seemed to be a popular weapon of choice among the criminal classes.

 

_And Sherlock_ , John thinks, _Sherlock also is glad to have me here._ After that night back at Baker Street, Sherlock had seemed to be back to his usual self: snarky, quick and witty, and even more brilliant than before. John had wondered constantly, especially during long flights, as he watched Sherlock snooze in his seat, if it was all but a façade, a strictly maintained play to fool him and all the others. He couldn’t quite figure that out and he was sure that Sherlock wasn’t keen on telling him, either.

 

A hushed voice calling his name shakes him out of his gloomy thoughts. On the right from the path that’s almost completely covered by snow stands Sherlock, leaning slightly on the tree. John jogs up to him, ready to complain about scaring him and leaving him behind, but switches approach completely upon seeing Sherlock’s pained expression.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, his eyes scanning Sherlock’s body for any visible signs of injuries. John notices he’s resting most of his body weight on his right leg and holding up his left one. “Did you twist your ankle?” Not waiting for Sherlock’s response, he kneels down to take a better look. The strong wind and thick snow isn’t helping. “It’s no use doing it here, we need to find a shelter,” he says matter-of-factly. “Do you have your phone with you?”

 

“Yes, but it’s no use,” Sherlock says, annoyed. “The blizzard makes it impossible to phone for help.”

 

“So we’re stuck here?”

 

“Yes, so we’d better start walking, we might find the shelter Moriarty’s people used to spend nights here,” Sherlock says. John knows his ankle must be hurting and that he’s probably colder than he is, so he lets his harsh tone and words spit like punches pass by. They’ve got time for that.

 

“And you’re sure they won’t be there?” John asks as they start walking awkwardly in what seems to be a random direction.

 

“No,” Sherlock says, much softer. “I saw the last of them get into some sort of sleigh.”

 

“Right,” John says. “Does it hurt very much?” he asks, shifting so Sherlock can lean even more on his side.

 

“A bit,” Sherlock admits. They keep on walking.

 

Fifteen minutes later they arrive at a small, wooden house. John stops and looks at it with astonishment, and then at Sherlock.

 

“Before you go all wide-eyed and start asking questions, I memorised the map when we infiltrated the base in Morocco,” Sherlock says quickly. John just nods and smiles at him. Sherlock furrows his brows. “Why are you smiling for? This was certainly bit not good!”

 

“Oh, so _you know_ when you do that!” John pretends to be shocked, which earns him a playful elbow in the ribs. He squeezes Sherlock’s waist tighter as they go inside the house.

 

As it could be expected, there is no power and the heating doesn’t work. The place is empty save for a small stool and a chest in the corner. After a quick examination, Sherlock’s ankle turns out to be in fact sprained and John stabilises it as well as he can with what’s left of his medical kit. He straightens up, muttering “done” under his breath, and is suddenly overwhelmed with the sight of Sherlock, so fragile looking and shaking, much like that fateful night at Baker Street.

 

“Come on, let’s get you warm,” he says quickly, helping Sherlock to stand up. Fortunately, there are two small blankets in the chest, but not much else, save for cigarette stubs and some random papers.

 

Weirdly enough, Sherlock lets him manhandle him to the centre of the room and to help him undress. Layer after layer, John unveils a tall, horribly skinny posture. Sherlock looks more like a shadow now than a man. This mission has taken a toll on both of them, but Sherlock hasn’t looked that bad in a very long time and after it’s all over, John must see to his proper recovery.

 

John lies down their trousers and his puffy jacket on the floor, folds his sweater and Sherlock’s blazer to make provisional pillows and helps Sherlock lie down on top of it. He hurries to lie down next to him and covers them both with Sherlock’s huge coat and the two blankets.

 

“Weird how we end up in situations like this, isn’t it?” He says, trying to get Sherlock to smile. He’s rubbing his hands together to warm them and manoeuvring his legs carefully to envelop Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock, indeed, smiles a little. “Yes,” he admits. “Quite weird.” And, after a while, “Are you even sure this will work?” he asks.

 

John furrows his brows. “Well, no. But I will be damned if I let you catch pneumonia.”

 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispers. “I… You know I… Because I don’t say that much and I wonder if you…”

 

John smiles. He’s surprisingly giddy for a person in this situation. “Slowly, love. Remember what we talked about. Whatever you’ve got to say, I won’t think it’s weird. Believe me, you say weird stuff on a daily basis. We’ve reached the limit.”

 

Sherlock smiles, too, but his breathing is shallow and quick. John rubs his thumb in circles on top of his right palm.

 

“I know it may sound weird,” Sherlock starts, using the example they’ve set a long time ago for situations in which Sherlock feels insecure. Helps establish a neutral ground, John had promised. “But I feel like I’m wearing you down with this mission. I wonder if it isn’t too much for you with the extreme conditions and well, me.”

 

“No,” John replies, tender but firm. “I chose to be here, remember? I wanted to be here.”

 

“But…”

 

“But what?”

 

“I feel like it would’ve been better for you if I had died on that rooftop back then,” Sherlock spits out so fast that John wonders if he heard correctly. He hopes not.

 

“Excuse me?” he says. Sherlock stays silent, avoiding his eyes. “Now why would you say that?”

 

“I drag you down,” Sherlock says. “I prevent you from having any kind of normal life. And for what? I _feel_ so much and I cannot even tell you, or if I do it ends up in a disaster! There is a reason I had been alone all my life, apart from being an obnoxious prick, and that was it. I cannot do emotions and maybe it would be easier if…”

 

“If you were dead?” John almost shouts and Sherlock curls up even more. “Sherlock, listen, because I am going to say this once. I am not great at doing emotions either. I am mediocre at best. There are certain things that I would like to say to you but can’t. And I’m working on it. You’re working on it. But listen to this: if you had died that day, I would’ve died the day after that.”

 

Sherlock’s hands are shaking, but John is sure that it’s not from the cold. He sees Sherlock shuffling awkwardly and feels his heart beating faster and stronger, like he’s still a damned fifteen-year-old about to have his first kiss. He is, of sorts, he thinks, as Sherlock’s cold lips land on the corner of his mouth. He presses a kiss there and then again, small and soft pecks. There is a certain hesitation in this action; John knows Sherlock isn’t sure if he should be doing that. Truth is, he isn’t sure either. But their life has never been about stability and with this thought in his concrete mind, John shifts a bit and kisses Sherlock sweetly on the lips.

 

The blizzard rages around them.

 

 

John didn’t know what he expected, but of that kiss they don’t speak either. He wakes up in the morning to a clear sky and a mop of dark curls under his nose (and some in his mouth). They dress up in silence and Sherlock sends their coordinates to Mycroft’s team and soon they’re in a helicopter sipping warm tea. There’s hesitation and unspoken truths in the air.

 

Within hours, they’re back at Baker Street with orders to rest before Mycroft returns with new information on whereabouts of the goons. This time it really seems to John like it will be the last time.

 

But even the warmth and comfort of his own chair and favourite wool socks cannot take his mind off their kiss the night before. He battles himself yet again, crawling on the concrete walls that seem less sturdy now, covered in vine in some places. He knows that’s not his doing, that’s all Sherlock; it’s him who brought real life to the cave of shadows.

 

But what would he say if he doesn’t know what it is either? He figures Sherlock regrets the kiss or maybe doesn’t want to remember it and thus decides to stay silent. That he knows how to do.

 

 

Mycroft comes a week later, when first spring showers begin and the remains of the winter snow wash away. He closes his umbrella, looking uncomfortably around the living room. For a wild second, John thinks that he knows what happened with him and Sherlock in Switzerland, but he bats the thought away.

 

Sherlock looks as unimpressed as ever.

 

“They have been spotted crossing Serbian border,” Mycroft says. “We’ve come to know of a few hiding spots for terrorist cells in Serbia, all of which need infiltration, of course. Regretfully, that will certainly take some time.”

 

Sherlock stays silent. “How much time exactly?” John asks.

 

“Three to four months. Six tops,” Mycroft says and John is sure that his pained sighed is like honey on his ears. “I will need a week or two for preparation of important resources, so for now enjoy your holiday, gentlemen,” he says with a pinch of irony and leaves the flat.

 

Sherlock looks at John but doesn’t say anything for a good minute or two. John wonders if he’s gone to his mind palace, but he notices him furrowing his brows and eyes looking up and down, left and right, rigid and frantic, like he’s deducing something; like when a child’s like depended on him with only ten seconds left to spare. But now, John suspects, it’s his own life that depends on it.

 

“Whatever you’re thinking, you can say it out loud, if you want,” John says softly.

 

“I don’t think you should come with me to Serbia,” Sherlock fires and looks away. John freezes.

 

“Why?” John asks. Sherlock is still avoiding his eyes, so he stands up and walks up to his chair. He kneels in between his parted knees and finally, after a really long while, Sherlock looks at him with a pained expression.

 

“It’s a long and uncertain shot,” he says. Trying to stay calm at all costs, John deduces. “You’ve heard Mycroft. Six months is a lot to ask even of you, John.”

 

John says nothing and studies his face. There’s certain hardness in Sherlock’s eyes that John hasn’t seen in a very long time, some ice-cold determination but also sadness. Regret. Fear. John knows Sherlock better than any of them wants to admit.

 

“But that’s not really the case, is it?” John asks. Sherlock flinches but maintains eye contact. “You told me at the beginning it could take years and I still wanted to go…” he pauses. “It’s something you know… You’ve been to Serbia before, haven’t you? It’s one of the ghost stories you refuse to talk about.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth turns downwards and any happiness from a correct deduction escapes John in that second. “Yes,” Sherlock admits. “I’ve been to Serbia before. And that is why I don’t want you to go.”

 

“But that’s not yours to decide, is it?” John asks. He wants to take Sherlock’s hands in his and kiss all of his knuckles. He, of course, doesn’t.

 

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock says and something in his expression changes. He clenches his teeth and looks down at John firmly. “Let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger and your aim isn’t what it used to be, probably because your hands are starting to shake under stress, which means you’re losing it, whether you want it or not. And your stamina isn’t so good either, as we’ve seen in Switzerland; who knows, maybe we wouldn’t have to go to Serbia if you were able to catch up with me and help me stop them. So there. I don’t think you should go. You will just slow me down.”

 

John feels fury tingling in his fingers and he stands up straight. Years ago, he would’ve exploded with rage after a tirade like that, and that fire is still inside him, make no mistake, but he knows better now. Fighting fire with fire brings more damage. But here, they’re not fire. Sherlock’s a machine gun and he’s soft feathers. But that’s not given. That’s what he chooses.

 

“I have a feeling you don’t really mean that,” he says quietly. “And I get that you’re scared, I really do, Sherlock. I am scared, too,” Sherlock wants to protest but he waves his hand at him and, surprisingly, that works. Sherlock sinks into his chair. “I wasn’t able to help you back then and you needed me. Now I _can_ help you. Let me help you, Sherlock.”

 

“I don’t need your help,” Sherlock mutters.

 

“Look at this in a different way, then,” John says patiently. “That night in Switzerland,” he begins and Sherlock stands up frantically and starts pacing the room “I told you that if you died, I would die the next day. This still applies. I meant that, Sherlock.”

 

“But why!” Sherlock exclaims, his back pressed to the wall next to the flat’s front door. John feels he might run away and slowly walks towards him, like he’s a deer caught in headlights.

 

“Because I care about you deeply,” John says, taking a step closer. “Because I couldn’t bear to lose you.” Another step. “Because you, Sherlock Holmes, the absolute madman, make my life actually worth living. Use your method, Holmes. Deduce why.” Their chests are practically touching. John sees Sherlock looking down into his eyes and then on his lips. He’s breathing deeply.

 

John thinks Sherlock won’t make the first move, not in the light of the day. He leans in and feels Sherlock’s body shift violently, pushing him aside, as he runs down the staircase. John runs behind him and yells and yells but to no avail. Maybe he’s really losing his touch.

 

 

It pours heavy rain the whole afternoon and John spends it dozing off on Sherlock’s chair, waiting for him to return. It’s past midnight when he finally gives up and walks up the stairs to his bedroom.

 

 He’s showered and changed into his pyjamas and decides to change his sheets for clean ones. It almost feels like a violation, being here, in silence and warmth, and not somewhere in a cave in South Africa with Sherlock, scaring away wild animals with fire. He settles down under the duvet when he hears a noise coming from behind his bedroom door.

 

It’s Sherlock, because who else would it be? He’s literally dripping wet, curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks bright red. John’s sure he will be sick after an endeavour like this.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he says, quiet and genuine. “About running away and about what I’ve said before.”

 

“Apology accepted,” John says, smiling.

 

They stare at each other in silence for a while, a promising silence, and then Sherlock asks, “Can I sleep here tonight, with you?”

 

“Why, are you cold?” John asks.

 

Shivering only slightly, Sherlock says, “No.”

 

John smiles.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments would be so appreciated! this is the first thing i have written after a 3 year break, so i would appreciate any comments! 
> 
> feel free to message me at my tumblr @wartimelovers if u wanna scream abt johnlock or just talk xx


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